Like Anything Could Stop Me
by YuuShka
Summary: When Hermione left her father with an ordering note to change name, find new job and new house, because it was too dangerous to him to be related to her, John Granger obeyed. He became John Watson, created a new identity, and started solving crimes with one Sherlock. But when mysterious murderes started happening, John knew it was time to try and reach his daughter. Pre Johnlock


First few times when someone sent patroni it shocked John (and Sherlock, though the bastard didn't admit it), but soon he grew used to them. And to everything else. To magic everywhere. Although he and Sherlock helped with the attack planning, and with treating injured Order members, it didn't take away that John felt misplaced. But if his discontent was quiet, only riddled with constant worry and fear, then Sherlock's was agonizing. The man dealt poorly with being confined in Muriel Weasley's manor. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't do something others did as naturally as breathing. To take his mind away from the day-to-day boredom he took to experimenting a lot with muggle chemistry and wizard potions. But mercifully, he didn't lash out at Weasleys and other Order members, for which John was grateful. He was fully aware that Sherlock reined his temper only for John's sake. Even though John was moderately sure wizards won't throw out two of them, he was wary of the possibility. He couldn't be back to square one when he was so close to his daughter, the closest since that Christmas two years ago.

Although her stunt still stung, especially the forged wizarding laws she left him, John understood her motifs. Understood, not accepted. He was her father, for god's sake. It was his job to protect her, not the other way around.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a misty figure of an amarok flying into the room, eliciting everyone present to look at it. "Bill!" Molly whispered, as the shimmering animal gracefully landed. John swallowed: patroni meant serious business and very rarely good news.

"Ron, Harry and Hermione are here, along with other three. They escaped Malfoy's Manor, and are battered, but they are safe." the canine faded into nothingness, having delivered the short message. Instantly, the voices rose up, excited with this unexpected turn of events.

"John," Sherlock appeared out of nowhere and gripped John's shoulder. The doctor turned and looked up at the other one. Brilliant Sherlock who threw away his life when John asked him to. And now they he was so close- so close. There was relief in Sherlock's eyes. And excitement. "Arthur," The other man abruptly broke the eye contact and turned to the head of Weasley family. "You need to apparate John to that location immediately."

"Of course," replied the balding man, already throwing over his shoulders travelling cloak. "Only John? You aren't going, Sherlock?"

John, who took the eye contact break as a permission to head to the entrance, looked back at Sherlock. Molly seized the opportunity to speak quietly with Arthur, giving an illusion of privacy for two muggles.

"No, this isn't my case. Not now, at least," the detective answered, and through mounting anxiety John felt affection swell inside him, making it hard to breath. Instead, the doctor only nodded and left the house, motioning for Arthur to hurry up. The ginger man hastily pecked Molly on her cheek, shouted a quick goodbye to other relatives and started leading John to the apparation point. When they reached the end of the property, just few steps before the point, Arthur stopped.

"I realise you can't wait to see her," he spoke quietly. "But you heard what Bill's amarok said: they escaped Malfoy's Manor, and they are battered. You might not like what you see there."

Arthur's own son is there too, John recalled, and Arthur was terrified for his life too. They were in the same situation. Except Arthur's son didn't run away without so much as a goodbye. And not for the first time John doubted. Did Hermione even want to see him?

"Let's get to our children, then," Watson said with a far more determination than he actually felt. Weasley smiled ruefully at him and offered his hand. "Hold on tight, then."

An infinitely long 10 seconds later, two men landed on a nondescriptive beach somewhere in Cornwall. There was nothing in sight, but John wasn't deceived by apparent emptiness. Especially when no one but Fleur Weasley stepped out of nothingness with a pointed at them wand.

"Harry is our best hope," John and Arthur spoke without prompting, and the woman nodded, her shoulders losing a bit of tension.

"After me," she turned on her heels, swishing her blonde hair, and John followed her without hesitation. A wave of coldness went through him when he stepped through the protective wards, but now he could see the house, all beige and with weird patterns on its walls. But he didn't really care about its exterior, only for who was inside the walls. He broke into a run. Could here Arthur's quickening pace two steps behind himself.

He burst into the building, startling two redheads. One was Bill, whom John saw couple of times on Order meeting to which he and Sherlock weren't invited, but attended nonetheless. Bill looked tense, his expression pinched. The other redhead was Ron Weasley. There was a dark bruise in Ron's face, which sent John's mind spiraling.

"Where is Hermione?" He demanded. Behind him Arthur finally entered the house.

"Dad!" Ron exclaimed, and promptly went into his father's waiting arms. John couldn't watch their reunion, couldn't watch the way Arthur clutched at his son. He turned to Bill.

"Where is my daughter?" To his credit, Bill didn't mind his demanding tone, only motioned John to follow into the house, up the stairs, down the hall to a closed door. "She's in there. They all had couple of hours of sleep, but Hermione had it worst and didn't wake up yet. She's in bad shape," the young man quietly spoke, before opening the door.

John braced himself for seeing some sort of an impossible injury, a bloody mess and a lot of bandages, but in fact what he saw was his little girl, much more grown now, sleeping on the bed, looking extremely pale and exhausted. But perfectly whole. He stepped into the room unsteadily, gripping at the doorframe, but then in one stride he was at her side, sitting down on the bed next to her.

"She was tortured," Bill filled in quietly. "She'll be weak and shaky."

John had seen Cruciatus victims, treated some of them. He knew the correlation between tremors and the length of the torture. And tremors that wrecked his daughter's body made him furious.

"Shout for Fleur or me if you need something," Bill said, and then finally closed the door, leaving John with his sleeping daughter alone.

She looked older. She was older he had to remind himself. Her hair was braided in a messy braid, clearly to make it easier for her, few strands already breaking free from it. She was still fully dressed, the grey sweater stained with dirt and blood. John saw that blood stains were sickest on her left forearm, but when he carefully lifted the sleeve, he saw that her arm was recently bandaged, clean bandage looking odd next to dirty jumper.

John took her injured arm in his, and cradled the thin hand in his. Hermione looked differently from last time he saw her, but she was still very young. And yet even in sleep her face was pinched from left-over pain. And although she looked older, her face was thinner, and not just from losing childish soft features. John himself had such half-starved look when he returned from army every summer.

The silence was shattered when the door was opened and Hermione's friends, Harry and Ron, stuck their heads inside. For a moment the boys and the older man studied each other, John taking in their thin faces, chapped from being outdoors a lot lips, bright eyes, mix of grief and fear in both sets.

"Mr. Granger," the dark-haired boy finally spoke.

"Harry," John answered, and then added. "And it is Watson now. I followed my errand daughter's instructions well."

Something flicked in Harry's eyes and he looked at the ginger, as if prompting him. The boy spoke.

"Don't be hard on her. She did that to protect you and struggled a lot with her decision."

"Not to mention, that if not Hermione, we'd all be dead by now," Harry added quickly. John noted how hard he gripped the doorframe, being in front of Ron, as if shielding him, and yet ready to leap at John. Protective of his friends. Well, he could appreciate that. John nodded in acknowledgement of their words, and with another fierce glare, the boys left, casting a lingering look at Hermione.

When the silence fell again, Watson turned back to just holding Hermione's injured hand, unable to let it go, and unable to do more. He didn't want to startle her, knowing how bad it can be for her. Not that his appearance at her bedside wouldn't shock her, he thought bitterly. And suddenly the bitter hurt was back. How could she? Why the hell did she think it was the best course for them? Did she really believe he wouldn't try to find his way to back her? One tired evening Sherlock quietly suggested she wanted to be found. "She could've easily alter your memory, erase every recollection of her, and she didn't," the consulting detective said then, and John could only nod, grasping at that tiny straw of possibility.

And here he was, finally seeing her, finally being close to his own daughter, his brilliant bright child who thought it'd be better to run away than maybe risk him... John found he couldn't really be that angry. Or rather, he was, but at this Moldywart, at the wizarding government, at the damn purebloods who put his daughter's life in danger. But he wasn't angry at Hermione anymore, just relieved she was alive.

He didn't know how long he sat there, while Hermione slumbered in fitful sleep, but an indefinite amount of time later, John saw the tell-tale signs of her waking up. He didn't let go of her hand.

"Ron, I'm sure you're finding this very romantic, but I'm not some damsel in distress," finally came the sleepy and slightly rough voice. John chuckled mirthlessly, thinking of the long awkward ginger boy.

"I'm afraid I'm not Ron," he answered quietly, and watched as her brown eyes snapped open, her body tensing immediately. "I'm not an apparition, either. I'm real, proper John Watson, formerly Granger."

Hermione looked at him silently, fine tremors still wrecking her body. Her eyes were huge, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I listened to you, for half a year I abided to you inane instructions, but then there was that bridge, and I knew it had to do with this world. But then there started turning up bodies with no explanation of how they died. I know that because I worked on those cases, helped with the autopsy. A lot of bodies. And a lot of autopsies. And I was sure then. I couldn't stay away, knowing my daughter is somewhere in there. And apparently she is in the middle of it all."

Hermione still didn't say a word, so John continued on chattering. Small talk, he was good with it. "Me and Sherlock, my... friend, we started looking for a way to get into wizarding world. By the time summer rolled we obtained subscription on Daily Prophet, and imagine my surprise when your name was mentioned in almost every issue. And then Prophet's policy made a U turn, and I saw your name in muggle registration list. We... tracked down Weasley twins, and, long story short, this is why I'm here."

"Two years, Hermione. Without so much as a letter, a call, anything to let me know you're alive," his voice was wrecked now, "If anyone else had done such a thing to me, I'd punch them. Repeatedly."

"Weasleys don't have a phone," Hermione finally spoke, and then gently tugged her hand away, sitting up in bed. She pulled her knees to herself, and rested her arms on them.

"Not really an excuse," John said, taking in how she changed, grew into her then-lanky limbs. Two years really change a teen a lot. She was so small just six years ago.

"It isn't," then she bit her lip, hard, before continuing. "But I wanted to ensure that you won't be looking for me."

"Yeah, I gathered it. But," John shook his head. "I was told that it would've been easier for you to just obliviate me, instead of all that."

"Well I didn't want to take that away from you!" Hermione exclaimed. "And I was afraid I'd damage you permanently! And even if I didn't, there was no guarantee I would be able to return your memory!"

"So you consi- no. This isn't going the way I wanted," John scrubbed his hand down his face and peered over his fingers at his daughter, who still looked exhausted and far too pale. "I don't want to fight with you over your over-dramatic motifs. I just want to hug you. And possibly never let you go."

"I-," Hermione started to say, but then her expression crumpled and next thing John Watson, formerly Granger, knew, he had his daughter in his arms. He embraced her fiercely, kissing her head, and wanting nothing more than just take her away from this nightmare.

"They say you were tortured," he hated how his voice broke over the last word, but Hermione only nodded, her own grip weak from muscle overstrain. John suddenly realised that her voice was hoarse not from sleep. It made him sick. "I'm so happy you are alive."

"Yes. Me too, dad," she sounded like she was close to tears, and John kissed side of her head again. But it only broke the dam, because she started shaking even harder, and he felt her hid her face into his shoulder, just like when she was little and bullied yet again. Before she learnt how to stand up to bullies. His little brave Hermione wasn't afraid of bullies anymore.

He held her as she cried, and didn't try to stop or conceal his own tears. After all, those were tears of both happiness and grief.

Sometime later Hermione finally pulled away, but not far, just enough to look into her dad's eyes. "I really missed you terribly. But I don't regret what I did. I'd do it again if it meant they won't get you."

Of course she'd say that, John mused to himself. And she really meant it, didn't she? Perhaps he was too insistent on bringing her up as an honest and unselfish person. But he didn't say any of this. Instead he cupped her face with one hand and brushed tear tracks away.

"You need more rest. Cruciatus makes people far too exhausted to be awake for more than few hours at a time. Especially," he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Especially prolonged exposure to it."

"I- I don't want you to go," the girl whispered almost inaudibly, as if unsure of reaction she'd get. John however, nodded decisively.

"Okay. Scoot then." Her brows drew together in confusion.

"What?"

"Scoot. I'm tired as hell, you're tired as hell. And we're both in an extreme need of a cuddle," at that Hermione giggled and moved aside, making room for her father. John eased down, lying on his side, back to the door, and Hermione snuggled to him, hiding behind the wall he created. John gladly gave her this illusion, enclosing his arms around her, shielding her away. They lay together like in old times, he stroking her hair, Hermione clinging to his shirt. Soon, both of them drifted into sleep, lulled by quietness in the house, disrupted only by quiet steps somewhere beyond the door.

The peace won't last for long, but for now they were safe.


End file.
